So far, I am lost in a world of writer’s block. Very frustrating when I finally have time to do what I want to do. Typical, I suppose.
I’d like to have something deep and meaningful to discuss today, and I do—as the days go along and something strikes my fancy or gets me angry or makes me laugh, I tuck it away to write about later. However, I don’t really wanna write about anything like that. In fact, I don’t even want to write about what we both know I wanna write about. What’s the point?
The music plays
At times it makes me dance in my chair as the beat matches the rhythm of my fingers on the key
Other times, it’s like a knife—reminding of all that was and all that could have been, should have been
The ghosts surround
Materialize from nowhere, replaying scenes in front of my eyes, making me a voyeur on my past
Haunting my house, my town, my everyday life
Maybe I’m the ghost
Words ebb and flow
Of my own volition and out of my control
Pouring out of my soul, windows to turmoil—disarray
They build and rush, attempt to heal, disappear
Well, there ya go. Closed my eyes and let my fingers start to move and that came forth. Just rushed out. Whatever, I feel better.
Almost as good a cheeseburger. Almost.